Autumnal
by Just Inevitable
Summary: Where Mrs Hughes is not a pauper. Slight AU.
1. Spring & Summer

_Author's Notes:_ For those of you lovely people who read and commented and messaged me about this story, thank you sooo much! It is (finally!) complete, 1 - Spring  & Summer, 2 - Autumn and Winter.

 _No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face._

 _\- John Donne_

* * *

Spring

* * *

There is something stirring around them, Elsie feels, perceives it in the gentle sweeping of grass, in the gliding brushstrokes of colour and sunlight painting in the new year. The snow has melted and given way to new earth, to the fresh, clean smell of life and the skies are filled with birdsong once more.

And she feels a shifting of the planes beneath their feet, in the upstairs moving forward and the downstairs moving on, and in the breeze of promise changing its course, rustling through the trees outside as she finishes her rotas for the evening.

From the servants' hall, she can hear Mr Carson's bellowing voice, his deep timbre commanding, imposing and she smiles in amusement, in comfort that there are some things which would remain.

Expects to see his face like thunder then, when he knocks at her door but he is all sunny disposition, at ease and relaxed after a long day's work.

"They didn't finish this, and they're away tomorrow, so I thought we might," he says, and his voice is honeyed, warm and melting her with those dulcet tones. "It's a favourite of mine."

And she hopes indeed, that there may be something new here, in the gentle curve of his smile when they are alone like this, as he pours her wine with a flourish, that there could something flickering in the light of his eyes when his brow softens in just that way.

Because she is almost sure now, almost but not quite, there is a newfound energy teeming beneath his reserve, something yielding, pliant behind the straight back and broad set of shoulders as they sit down together.

That this is a proposal more than of the business venturing sort, and Elsie prays in her heart of hearts that her own eyes are not deceiving her, that all her talk of the times changing have not fallen on deaf ears and he has heard her at last, anew, and the prospect of a shared future is now ripe and burgeoning between them.

"These four are our real contenders," he says. "Three good sized bedrooms, a bathroom already installed and a room off the kitchen for a maid."

That there really is an excitement in him, an almost youthful animation as he pushes the folder across the little table between them, gestures for her to open it and read through his careful research.

Elsie smiles at him warmly, teasingly. "And where's the butler's pantry?" she asks.

He smiles in return. "If we're offering bed and breakfast, there should be someone there to run it."

And she does not know, she has not yet decided what this all means, but the seeds of hope have been sown within her and she feels it. Hopes that this world reborn may be more forgiving, that it might have a small space for a Butler and Housekeeper to exist beyond the walls of their station, perhaps to offer them a little cottage of their own to call home.

"We should go and look at them," he decides. "And then we'll talk."

And Elsie senses his eyes on her face that night, as they sip their wine companionably; the soft, loving gaze directed her way and she thinks that just maybe, perhaps he might feel it too.

* * *

Summer

* * *

Then the flowers are in full bloom, and they have traipsed all across the village and just beyond, have walked side by side in every little lane, the sleeve of his coat brushed against hers.

Have stood huddled together under the guise of a broken roof, in the roughage of an unruly garden, and by the empty hearth of a dampened fire in an old drawing room or six.

And Elsie has rejoiced in the quiet intimacy of taking their half days together, in the way he proffers his arm when they've walked a far way, where there is a little hike after the road in Helmsley.

Delights in the small gesture when they stop for stamps at the post office, or for cake at the little tea shop on the way home and he pays her way with insistence, with a gallant wave of his hand.

The way he passes her his bowler hat to hold this afternoon, as they survey the house on Brouncker Road.

"Well," Mr Carson says then, as they reach the bottom of the stairs. "I really think this might be the one, Mrs Hughes."

And the air is warm now, humid and she is stifled beneath her collar, stuffy and restrained by the endless confines of clothing, by layers of meaning weighing down upon them.

She nods uncertainly, prompts him with the raising of her brow. "Do you, indeed?"

Because she still does not know where this winding path may lead, cannot make out his true meaning when he hides behind the fences of propriety, of properties and professional propositions.

"Oh yes," he says. "It is very happily situated, close enough to the Abbey for us to walk, and as you said, the rooms are uncommonly cosy."

She looks down at her hands, at his hat held tenderly between them. Thinks that this is just his way, that these are new waters and he is uneasy, shin deep in their changing tides and she must be the one to steady him, to guide.

Thinks perhaps that even he does not know yet for certain, what may come if they brought their friendship out of the shadows, into the harsh light of day.

"But do you like it, Mrs Hughes? Can you envision us in this place —" he pauses then, and she sees widening of his eyes taper, disappear quickly, "—working well here, together?"

Elsie blinks up at him once, twice, tucks in her chin and smiles. "I'm sure I could see us very happy here together, Mr Carson."


	2. Autumn & Winter

Autumn

* * *

But green withers slowly to brown, and sand turns to sludge under her boots, and she waits. Waits until the sun is set dimmer in the sky, and the air runs sharp and bitter around them, within, and there hasn't been word or whisper of anything else.

There is nothing and that is the trouble, no declarations of sentiment, of affection, nothing except security in numbers, endless talk of cold calculations, of duties shared and halved and Elsie's heart has grown tired.

Tired of waiting for this magnificent man; this man of stone and oak, so unmoving and rooted in these arid grounds. This man who has come in tonight with wine not so dear to him, and his face dearer to her than ever before.

"I've done the sums," he tells her, then. "And I think we should put in an offer on the house on Brouncker Road."

Elsie swallows thickly. "Before I agree to be part of it?"

Because there is nothing, she realises, nothing to gain from this mindless venture, from his gentle pursuit and Mr Carson's glass raised now, in celebration. "To our future, as property magnates."

And her hopes suddenly seem so foolish, fruitless amidst the wilted and the waned and dying things, seem so terribly misplaced. She sets down her glass on the desk. "Very well," she says. "I can see there is no escape."

She speaks of their little dream, of nice ideas and follies even as the smile falls from his lips, even as the light in his eyes is snuffed out before her and he places his own drink on the table.

"And I would've liked to come in with you, I would have…"

But nothing grows on barren land and they cannot build a future out of the stuff of dreams, cannot create love from lack. "But, you won't?"

They will be cold in their graves, side by side in that too, before he ever gets to the point and there is a quiet ache inside her that will not do.

Her eyes then, fill with tears. "No," she says. "I'm sorry."

And the winds are punishing now, the waters under the bridge have been frosted thin and they are treading lightly on this unsteady terrain. They sit by a fire that does not burn, as the lights flicker to black and watch as the raindrops fall against the windowpanes for a long, silent age.

"Well," Elsie says, at last. "If there's nothing else, Mr Carson…" She wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders and reaches to shut the books before them.

"Wait, Mrs Hughes, please," he says, then. "Only, I was wondering if perhaps it was a matter of financial difficulty?"

It is the difficulty of words unsaid however, of skies clouded over and obscured sunlight which has benumbed her. "My sister and her husband sometimes need help with the farm, but no, it isn't that."

Their cups of cocoa have gone cold, untouched and so she lifts them off the table, means to tidy up before turning in when his two fingers land softly on her wrist, when an unexpected surge of warmth against her frosted skin sends the cups rattling in their saucers.

He extracts them gently from her grasp and sets them back down, frowning in desolation, in despondence. "But then, why —"

And Elsie hates the dulling of his blue eyes to grey, resents that her heart has softened so these past months, thawed so that the simple feeling of his skin against hers sets the stamped out embers within her alight once more, aflame.

"Please, Mr Carson, let's just leave it be." Tears are rushing to her eyes and in the distance, the rain pelts harder and heavier to the ground.

"— Because I hope you didn't think I'd let you do the work all on your own."

And as his hands lightly circle her wrists and he closes the space between them, the ice shatters beneath their feet.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" she says, then. It is a storm twenty years in the making, a tempest which rages within her. A loud clap of thunder echoes in her ears and suddenly, suddenly Elsie is shouting. "Mr Carson, perhaps I wondered if you had any other reasons in buying a property with me."

She sees the lightening reflected in his widened eyes, and the flinching of his body away from hers. "I beg your pardon?"

And they are flooded now, under these deep waters, Elsie is drowning in this heady outpouring of emotion. These are the changing tides sweeping them away, the yearning hurricane in a heart too long unused, and the tears begin streaming down her face. "Before now, you have never shown any inclination that you imagine a life outside of Downton."

His voice is raised now, too, resounding thunder in her ears. And there is something almost turbulent, almost rampant in his face so close to hers, in his gaze, dark and fixed upon her own. "And what if that's changed? What if I've changed, Mrs Hughes?"

His breath is shallow now, warm gusts against her face and Elsie lifts her jaw as he leans down toward her, as his palms slide down against hers and her own breath has stopped and then—

Another flash of blinding light comes streaking through the window, blanching them white, and a deafening rumble in the sky wrenches them apart.

And then Mr Carson is clearing his throat as he recoils, as he backs suddenly away with his fingers tugging compulsively at the seam of his waistcoat. "I am sorry, Mrs Hughes," he mumbles. "I have chivvied and bullied you, when if I'd had any sensitivity at all, I would have realised."

It is a gentleman's reproof, Elsie knows; he has retreated, taken cover in decorum and reserve, as the storm courses on around them. "I wish you very well with your new house, Mr Carson. You've earned it. But there is no place for me in the project."

He turns the doorknob to leave, and she can see the lump in his throat as he swallows. "I can assure you that I never intended..."

Elsie looks down at her hands then, folded in front of her. "No, you never intended. I see that now."

* * *

Winter

* * *

It is a long while before the snow begins to settle about them, weeks have since passed by the time the clouds dissipate and the blizzard calms. And Christmas day is bright and clean, snowfall has settled over them during the night and the harsh, jagged edges are softened somehow, cushioned by the heavy sleet blanket.

The house is bustling with merriment, fragrant with the scent of gingerbread and cinnamon, of ferns and fresh firewood and Elsie breathes it all in. Her father's good cufflinks are wrapped in brown paper and a bow, sitting in the bottom drawer of her desk and her present under the tree has no note, but she is determined to enjoy the day's festivities, to appreciate the good food and the carolling, the carousing all around her.

She's resolved to let bygones be bygones, to mend her own shivered heart because her friendship with Mr Carson is no small gift of its own. And so she is glad, pleasantly surprised when he approaches her at the party that evening, when he returns from visiting his newly acquired property with snowflakes fallen in his hair and steers her gently away and into his office for a private word. Elsie acquiesces and secures two cups of punch for them, extends the warm spiced cider as an offering of peace, as a token of reconciliation.

"Let's toast your new house," she suggests, and he declines with a polite raise of his hands, the furrowing of his brow.

"Maybe I should mention one thing," he says, and Elsie watches as he fumbles for the words, trudges and ploughs toward his point. "You say 'your new house,' but it isn't only mine."

Her eyes widen, as he pushes forth. "I've registered it in both of our names. I hope you don't mind, but I hate to change a plan when there's no need."

And it is frostbite against her skin, a cold which singes and burns as she hears the words fall from his lips. "Mr Carson, I'm very appreciative, really. But I can't accept."

"Why not?" he asks incredulously, and she sighs.

Because, she thinks, the fortress she had fortified for months and seasons and years, he has fortuitously pulled apart and laid her bare, and she knows now the hurt that this path overrun would surely bring. Because she does not need what he cannot willingly give her, does not want this benevolent act of charity now that her own feelings had risen to the surface.

"Because you don't want to be stuck with me," is what she says then, however. And so she cannot fathom the sparkling in his eyes as he stares down at her now, the glitter and twinkling lights from something more than warm winter spirits.

"But that's the point," he says. His eyes are shining with tears, water for the tempering of new earth and this smallest budding of hope, the tiniest of seedlings is reborn from the ashes, when he speaks again. "I _do_ want to be stuck with you."

Elsie's gaze wanders up to his own, she stares up at him in wonderment as her breath is fixed within her pharynx, asphyxiated in anticipation. "I'm not convinced I can be hearing this right."

And then her heart is seizing in her chest, ceasing suddenly and then pulsating, beating once more with new life. "You are if you think, I'm asking you to marry me."


End file.
